Beloved
by siddigfan
Summary: Wilson comforts his lover.


Beloved

When he arrived home to the loft, Wilson called out to House while setting aside his things. Seeing no sign of his lover except his carelessly tossed leather jacket and motorcycle helmet, he headed down the hallway to their bedroom and cracked open the door, just a little, in case House was up to something 'private'. Wilson smirked to himself at the thought.

But when he peered in, he saw House just flopped on his back on their bed, looking absolutely dejected, his arms at his sides, totally vulnerable. His chest rose and fell too quickly, in short shallow breaths, and his ocean blue eyes stared at the ceiling, wide as saucers. His body seemed tense, as if he were just lying there helpless, waiting for some blow to fall.

"House?" Wilson called softly, moving toward the bed. Even as he sat down on the edge, House gave no sign of even noticing that he was there, so focused was he on whatever thoughts loomed in his mind. He stank of alcohol.

Wilson heaved a sigh. "House," he offered tenderly, "It wasn't your fault. You-you did everything you could have done! How could you possibly have known that the kid had a clotting disorder? If his parents withheld the information to cover their own asses, how were you supposed to know? I know you're a genius, but you're not a fucking mind reader! If they'd admitted they knew, they'd have had to reveal his previous injuries and they knew you'd have figured out he'd been abused. Why do you think they were so reluctant to have you take over his case in the first place? If Cameron hadn't picked it up from the ER…Hey!" Wilson reached out and grabbed House's shoulder. "I'm talking to you here! Look at me!"

"Go away!" House said, petulantly, like an angry child. His lower lip even stuck out and his brow furrowed angrily. "Leave me alone! I don't want your pity!" His words were slurred with too much bourbon.

Wilson couldn't help but smile softly as he witnessed his friend's transformation from helplessness to pure stubbornness. Fondly, he reached out and cupped House's cheek with the palm of his hand.

"Tough!" he declared. "You're stuck with me. I know you'd like everyone to believe you're an unfeeling ass but I know it's all a sham. I know you care TOO much and that's why you stay away from patients. You're so afraid if you get close to them, you'll lose your objectivity. And if you can't save them, you think it will hurt less if you put up walls. But it NEVER works! I've watched you do this dance for years and it NEVER works! Welcome to the human race, my friend!"

Wilson felt House cringe beneath his hand and try to curl up into a ball and away from him; try to block out everything Wilson was saying to him. "I don't need this right now, Wilson! Just get the hell away from me!"

Wilson tilted his own head back and squeezed his eyes tightly shut in sheer frustration. This particular patient's death had hit House really hard, he knew—an abused six year old boy—very much like House himself had once been. It was just too close to home.

"Why won't you let me comfort you, House?" Wilson begged. "Why do you always pull away from me? We're not just 'friends' anymore! Everything that you go through is important to me—affects me, too! I have to try! It tears my heart out to see you like this! You think it's fair to just push me away and expect me to just—just go out in the other room and fucking watch TV like I don't feel anything? I have a _right_ to share your feelings with you! The bad as well as the good! You can't just shove me aside like this!"

House refused to respond and Wilson finally got pissed. He thought of just throwing up his hands and stomping out of the room—leave House to his misery, if that's what he wanted so badly, damn it! Then he looked once more at the pouting lip and the tense shoulders, the pain-filled eyes, and immediately his mind was filled with the image of that little boy, bruised body so still and pale, eyes staring in death.

Wilson's own voice shouted in his head, "No! I can't stand this!" He grabbed his lover by the shoulders and forcefully shook him. "You listen to me, Gregory House!" he declared. "I'm not going away to leave you to stew in your own 'self-abuse'! I love you, you cantankerous bastard, even if you can't figure that out! I love you and you're going to listen to me if I have to sit here all night! Do you hear me, damn it?"

"No!" House cried out suddenly, as if he were in pain. "I don't want you! Go away! I can't—I'm not—I don't _deserve_ for you to be here!" He curled up even more tightly if that were possible and buried his face in his hands.

Wilson grabbed House's hands and pulled them away. "Why?" he demanded. "Why don't you deserve me to be here?" His eyes narrowed. "Or—Is it not just me?—Is it that you don't think you deserve _anyone _to be here? You don't think you deserve _anyone _to care about you! That's _it_, isn't it, House? Why, House—_why_?" He shook him again. "Do you think someone's going to _punish _you if you let something _good_ happen to you? Who?" Wilson hammered at him relentlessly. "Who's going to punish you, House? The God you don't believe in? Your bastard father who's dead and buried? Who's going to punish you, House?"

"Stop it! Stop!" House moaned pitifully, trying to turn his whole body away. "I can't—I can't…" He started to shake and actually cry, something Wilson hadn't seen him do since Stacy had left him after the infarction. That had been years ago. "It hurts—It hurts!" And Wilson knew he didn't mean his leg.

Wilson wrapped his arms tightly around his broken friend. "I know, I know," he soothed, murmuring into his hair, breathing in his lover's scent—the sweat, the booze, the fear. "I know you hurt, I know! It's okay—I'm here!" He held House while he sobbed and shook and struggled to escape, finally giving up in exhaustion to Wilson's strength and desperation.

"That's it," Wilson crooned. "Just let it all go—let it go, House. I'm right here! Just let me hold you! I promise I won't let anything bad happen to you!" He stroked House's hair as he lay curled up in his arms, panting. "You've got _me_, now. You don't have to do this alone anymore! I love you so much!"

House tried to lift his head wearily. "Why?" he breathed desperately. "_Why_ do you love me? I'm _nobody_! I'm _nothing_!"

"No-no-no-no-no," Wilson soothed him, rubbing slow circles on his shoulder. "That's not true! That's your _dad_ talking! He was a sick bastard who filled your head with lies! You are my best friend and—and—my _beloved_!" Wilson smiled at the thought of having a 'beloved'. It seemed like such an old-fashioned word. "I love you more than anyone in the whole world! So, you must be pretty special, don'cha think?" He gazed down into House's upturned face. Though House was the older one, he always seemed so much younger. He looked so confused and so afraid. There was so much longing in his great blue childlike eyes—just like that poor damn kid…

Wilson hugged House ferociously to his chest. 'My _beloved_,' he thought, passionately. A fierce purpose welled up within him that he wasn't ever going to see House's body like that, so bruised and still and pale, face full of pain even in death. Unloved, unwanted—unsaved.


End file.
